


Marching To A Different Beat

by Sinsational_Sinnabon



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Forgive Me If I messed up anything I'm not in marching band, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Marching Band, Other, french horn, trombone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 08:43:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7928221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinsational_Sinnabon/pseuds/Sinsational_Sinnabon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Based on a prompt by myrobotlandlord.tumblr.com</p><p>"you’ve been learning the trumpet since you were a child and now you’re finally going to be a part of what you think is a prestigious marching band. you’re placed next to a trombone player… who won’t stop smiling at you."</p>
    </blockquote>





	Marching To A Different Beat

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt by myrobotlandlord.tumblr.com
> 
> "you’ve been learning the trumpet since you were a child and now you’re finally going to be a part of what you think is a prestigious marching band. you’re placed next to a trombone player… who won’t stop smiling at you."

Your first big performance was less than a couple weeks away. Nerves played a jaunty perri-diddle down your spinal cord as you put together the gleaming brass french horn that had been your love and joy since high school. As a shy and nervous freshman, Marching Band was the very last thing on your Preferred Electives list; but of course - that’s exactly where the high school gods deigned to put you. That was fifteen years ago, and now you were the best brass player in your section in a professional marching band and gifted with the responsibility of keeping the rest of your team in line in the upcoming show. Playing at the official designation of monster citizenship was a _huge_ honor, and you were determined for everything to go perfectly.

 

You were a kind but firm leader, and the other brass players looked up to you and made your job effortless. They spun on command and played with the utmost precision. The drums kept the beat and you accompanied with a resounding melody that brought the crowd to its feet.

 

In theory, of course. Unfortunately for you, the band lead had just transferred a new player into your tuned and practiced section. He took the place of the trombone player that had been out sick all season; the same player that your main horns had _just_ learned to compensate for. It was something about having more “monster diversity” in your corps, especially considering the subject of the show.

 

It wasn’t that you were… speciesist, or whatever, but the guy certainly didn’t look like a seasoned player. Every person on the team put at least 25 hours a week into a hardcore exercise and practice regimen that left them toned in body and in instrument. The man standing in front of you, despite being a literal skeleton, still featured a slightly pronounced gut, and seemed to sweat after just a couple run throughs of your routine. He played the part well enough, you had to admit, but his habits during rehearsal were abysmal.

 

Speak of the devil.

 

You glanced over, taking advantage of a break in your set, to notice your trombone player sprawled lazily in the grass, the large golden instrument unceremoniously dumped beside him.

 

Of all the _disrespectful_ , _embarrassing_ , _LAZY_ behavior you had ever been privy to on your team, this had to be the absolute WORST. Not only was he skipping out on playing his part in the run through; he was napping. Fucking fast asleep like he hadn’t a care in the damn world. Like there wasn’t a huge performance looming over all your heads. Gripping your slightly sweat-slicked horn tightly, you stuck your flag into the ground and strode angrily over to where he lay. It wasn’t until you stood in front of him that you realized you hadn’t even bothered to learn his name, as consumed in pre-show jitters as you were.

 

“TROMBONE 1! ATTEN-HUT!”

The skeleton’s eye sockets snapped open, bright pupils flitting around wildly before landing on your furious expression. Nervous sweat beading at his temple, he scrambled to his feet, assuming an attentive stance.

 

“*s-section leader!” His eyelights glanced everywhere except on you. “*apology requested for sleeping during rehearsal!”

 

His plastered on smile, even during such a trite sounding apology, grated at your nerves. Was he mocking you?

 

“Why are you smiling? Is this funny to you? Do you see this rehearsal as a joke?”

 

The collar of his uniform was now drenched with sweat, his skeletal hands twitching uneasily.

 

“*this is how i look all the time.”

 

Hot metal slid under your fingers as you gripped your instrument even tighter.

 

“Are you mocking me sir?”

 

The corners of his grin pulled downwards, morphing his expression into a sort of grimace.

 

“*n-no section leader! I’m telling the honest _tooth_.”

Shit. That was his natural expression. Your professional facade slipped as you back pedalled, “Ah! I - uh, didn’t know - your face uh - shit.”

 

You hid your quickly reddening face behind your free hand.

 

“God I’m so sorry.” You were lucky if he would even agree to play this coming performance, after that slip up. Even though he was lax at practice, it wasn’t like he was a bad team member.

 

Warm bones tugged lightly at your wrist, revealing his still somewhat anxious but mostly relieved face peering at yours. He pulled at his wet collar, a small smile coming back to his face.

 

“*hey, don’t sweat it. happens a lot.”

 

The back of his uniform hit the grass as he easily tumbled back to his prone state, pulling you with him until you were both gazing at the clouds drifting carelessly across the bright blue sky. A small break wouldn’t hurt, you guessed.

 

You turned your head to look at your fellow player, who was looking at the wide expanse of azure above with an almost wistful look on his face. After a moment, he tore his eyes away to meet yours. His tone was serious as he spoke up.

“*look, i really am sorry i’m not a better member of the team. i don’t have a lot of energy, and i tire quickly. sometimes i even fall asleep at work, and i don’t even do much there.”

 

You found yourself looking at the side of his skull again as he set his eyes back on the clouds.

 

“*but i am trying. ask my brother - i practice at home for hours every day. he hates it.”

 

A small chuckle escapes from between your lips. You were sure your family could sympathize.

 

“I shouldn’t have assumed that you were just slacking off, and just asked you. I should’ve been a better section leader.”

 

With a grunt, you forced your tired muscles into sitting up so you could catch his eye. You wondered if skeletons could sunburn. There was a definite sprinkling of blue across his cheeks and above his nasal ridge. Noticing that you were looking at him, he copied you; sitting up and propping himself up on one arm, legs stretching out in front of him. His other hand patted his belly lightly, shooting you a smirk.

 

“*what? didn’t think i had the _waist band_ for _marching band?_ ”

 

You snorted to hide the unpleasant curl of embarrassment at his accurate observation. He may have laughed it off as a joke, but you could tell that he could read you like middle school sheet music.

 

“*paps said if i was going to have this instrument in the house, i may as well do something useful with it besides “plague his life with incidental music”” He marked his brothers words with emphasized quotation marks in the air. “*imagine my surprise when i found out that humans had whole groups of people that enjoyed playing these things too!”

 

You could hear the barely hidden wonder in his voice and you pondered, for a second, just how strange and difficult it must have been to be suddenly thrown into a world with new sights, smells, cultures.

 

You looked over at his trombone, which you hadn’t really considered until now. Upon closer inspection, it was in pretty rough shape, dented in several places and rusted around the rim. But whatever brass still remained had been cared for lovingly, and gleamed in the bright mid-afternoon sun. He must’ve found his instrument after someone threw it away. Maybe he was the only one who played underground. Another flash of guilt. All this time you were so focused on fitting him into your section; into the shoes of your previous trombone player - that you’d never even given any thought to him as a person.

 

“You’re a very good player…” You trailed off, hoping that he would save you the faux pas and tell you his name.

 

“*sans”

Thank God. “In fact, you learned music in weeks that it took me months to perfect. How long have you been playing?”

 

A huge smile pushed the bottoms of his sockets upward in response to your compliment, but there was also a hint of mischief in his grin.

 

“*if i told you that, you may kick me out of the band in fear of losing your spot as section leader.”

 

You shoved his shoulder playfully, sending him tumbling to the ground.

 

“And what makes you say that?” You paused for effect. “Hate to toot my own horn, but I’ve been playing for quite some time. There’s no way you outrank me!”

 

His smile, if anything, grew wider. “* dunno about that. i put a skele- _ton_ of work into my craft.”

 

You looked him up and down. He didn’t look like he could be more than in his early thirties, but then again, you had no ideas if monsters got wrinkles, and his shiny white bald head left no evidence of greying hairs.

 

“I’ll make you a wager. You tell me how long you’ve been playing, wise guy, and if I beat you, you have to try your best to participate more in practice. No more sleeping during sets.” You were serious, but a soft grin pulled at your mouth.

 

“* and if I win?”

 

You scoffed. “If by some miracle you’ve played the trombone longer than I’ve played the french horn, I’ll….” You struggled to come up with a suitable deal.

 

“*let me take you out for coffee. your treat.”

 

That little shit.

 

“Fine! Let’s have it then.”

 

You heard the director calling for the end of break, prompting everyone to get back in formation for another run. Sans slowly got to his feet, picking up his trombone and turning to join the rest of the team. You remained seated on the grass, confused. About midway there, he spun around, letting his instrument hang slung over his shoulder and waggling a playful finger gun back in your direction.

 

“*i’ve been playing this baby for 300 years now, give or take a decade.”

 

Your jaw fell open in a soundless gasp. Your skeleton date jauntily tilted his skull to the side and winked before turning back around and assuming his place in line.

Grass flew up around you as your body landed hard on the warm earth, uncontrollable laughter bubbling up and musically filling the summer air. You took a second to bask in the slight breeze and let the lingering happiness slowly drain away, leaving you calmer and more stress free than you’ve been in weeks. Standing, you re-joined your section and, with a smile, prompted them into a forward march, the first few notes of the set ringing joyously in your ears. Lifting your horn to your lips, you turned and joined them.

 

As you led your team in glide step behind the drums, you couldn’t help but glance at Sans, who was perfectly in tune and in step. He caught your eye and his natural smile melted into something more genuine, his eyelights bright and excited.

 

‘300 years huh?’

 

You couldn’t help but wink back at him before turning back around to face the front, pausing in your melody to call out another order to your team.

 

‘Maybe I’ll buy him dinner too.’


End file.
